


A Night By The Docks

by PickledDeath



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Abduction, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Assault, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:24:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PickledDeath/pseuds/PickledDeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tintin is on the trail of a mysterious attacker by the docks. He sets himself up as bait, but his plan goes awry. He can only hope that the Captain will find him in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night By The Docks

**Author's Note:**

> Original Kinkmeme Request: Any/Tintin cloroform, non-con or dub-con. Just what it says on the tin: Tintin gets cloroformed by someone and that someone takes advantage. Go nuts, anons! [link]

Tintin huffed out a breath of hot air that puffed into the night air as a fluffy white cloud. The air was uncommonly cold for October and a dense cover of cloud blocked out what Tintin assumed was probably a dazzling night sky. Tintin stood underneath a street lamp by a dilapidated quay glancing back and forth down the nearly empty street.

 

If the young reporter was honest with himself he would have been much happier traveling to some far flung locale for a much juicier story. Unfortunately, the only real story going on at that exact moment was of some crazed man who attacked people by the docks on overcast nights such as the one Tintin was currently experiencing. Normally, Tintin wouldn't have gotten involved unless Interpol asked him too. But, the reports of the victims had been so vague and strange that he had been intrigued.

 

Most of the victims had been young men or boys (the youngest being 13, the oldest being 27) with a few teenage girls scattered among them. All of the victims had reported being down by the docks after dark and, for various reasons, alone. They all reported feeling someone come up from behind them and put something over their face with a strong chemical smell (some said like gasoline, others like paint thinner). Then, they reported passing out. From there the accounts vary greatly. Some of them reported waking up aching, severely nauseous, but with no physical damage. Others recalled being beaten severely, while a handful remember nothing at all and awoke disoriented in an alleyway.

 

Nothing was stolen. Many victims walked away with no visible marks. Just a night by the docks that they couldn't remember. It was a mystery and it pulled at Tintin with a gravitational force he couldn't resist.

 

This was Tintin's third night out by the docks and he still hadn't encountered anything more exhilarating than a few loud drunks and some mean alley cats. He wondered vaguely if he made himself too obvious by coming every night. But, he had to hope that he made a good enough target to tempt the attacker into action. He was not unaware of his appearance. Small, pale, and with bright orange hair he had long ago resigned himself to the understanding that he wasn't going to intimidate anyone on first meeting them. But, his unassuming appearance had its own advantages.

 

By Tintin's estimation it was coming up on one in the morning and still no sign of his attacker. Possibly, he was too obvious. Even if he looked like no threat he supposed a clever criminal might have smelled the trap from a mile off. Tintin huffed another little cloud into the air and considered returning to Marlinspike. The attacker would have struck by now if he hadn't already.

 

Just as Tintin was pulling the collar of his trench coat closer around his neck he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. Tintin froze. He had to time this very carefully. If he acted too quickly he would scare his attacker and in a foot chase he may not be able to catch him. If he didn't catch him he was unlikely ever to do so. And, of course, if he acted too late then he may end up another victim himself.

 

The footsteps were coming steadily closer. Tintin shifted his feet into a slightly wider stance hoping not to alert the man coming up behind him. He felt his arm tense. He waited for the arm he knew was about to reach up over his shoulder and smother him.

 

Tintin was surprised to instead suddenly find his head smashed against the lamp post beside him. There was a loud crack as his skull met the post and then a faint ringing as the metal post vibrated along with his head. Tintin's head swam. Frantically, he tried to push his body to stand up, kick out, to do something but his body wouldn't obey him. Faintly, he thought that the attacker must have known it was a trap and adjusted his modus operandi appropriately to throw Tintin off.

 

And then he felt it, the rough cloth smelling distinctly of what Tintin could immediately identify as Diethyl Ether being pressed into his face from behind. Frantically, Tintin tried to jerk his head away, push away the hand over his mouth and nose, or even just to hold his breath. But, it was no use. And, surely, steadily everything faded to black.

 

Tintin had been through plenty of hair raising, terrifying situations in his time as an investigative reporter. He had faced certain death with a certain amount of resignation and exhilaration. But, from the moment that he regained conscious thought, he knew that this adventure wasn't going to be as fondly remembered as the others.

 

The first thing that Tintin became aware of was the terrible ache in his head. At first he was confused. It felt like his head was filled with cotton and metal shards. But, after focusing on the pain for a few seconds he remembered being clocked into the lamp post and everything else started to slide into place.

 

It was difficult for him to organize his thoughts. Shortly after getting around the blaring pain all over the left side of his head and the thick slow feeling of his own thoughts, nausea washed over him and he had to resist the urge to gag. Ether, while less dangerous than its predecessor Chloroform, still caused severe nausea in some patients. Not to mention that, while needing a much larger dose to be toxic, Ether could still kill young children and the elderly in large doses. Tintin was lucky that he hadn't taken in any more than he had. In fact, all of the victims had been lucky so far.

 

Breathing slowly through his nose to try and offset the turning in his stomach and clenching of his throat, Tintin tried to open his eyes. He became aware that there was something tied over his eyes, a blindfold. So, there was an explanation for why nobody remembered the attacker. He came from behind and after drugging his victims blindfolded them in case they woke up.

 

Tintin tried to slowly draw his arm toward his face to see if he could pull the blindfold off and get a glance at his surroundings. His limbs felt numb, like they had fallen asleep. Upon trying to tug his arms down he found that they must have been bound somewhere above his head.

 

Tintin started to struggle. Were his bonds rope, tape, or even metal? He couldn't tell. His sense of touch was severely dimmed along with all his other senses. His breath started to come fast in his chest and didn't help with the urge to vomit the meager contents of his stomach. He was really in trouble.

 

From his left Tintin could hear shuffling steps and the movement of possibly glass or metal. The steps came up along his side and a stuffy voice said, "You're not a police officer."

 

Something was thrown down on the table (at least, it felt smooth and even like a table) that Tintin was tied down too. Had the man gone through his pockets? Tintin admitted that's what he would have done had he caught someone trying to catch him.

 

"Does anybody know where you are, boy?" the voice asked again. It was dry and stuffy, the consonants distinctly pronounced. Upper class, Tintin thought. Either went to school abroad or grew up outside of Belgium. But, his accent was too well cultured to reveal much else.

 

Tintin didn't answer the man.

 

He sniffed and walked away again.

 

Tintin went back to the bonds on his wrists. He bent his hand as far forward as he could to try and feel out what was binding him. His fingertips tapped along what felt like leather or vinyl with a buckle and straps. Medical restraints. Tintin was starting to build a better picture of his attacker.

 

Before Tintin could start to try and undo the buckle holding the strap in place the shuffling steps returned. The man didn't speak this time. Tintin felt him start to pull at his clothes. What sounded unmistakably like scissors clipped through the front of his blue jumper. Then, he could feel the man carefully undo the buttons of his white shirt and pull it up from his trousers.

 

"I've never had a red headed boy before," the man muttered quietly, Tintin assumed to himself.

 

His hands were wide, dry, and warm. He laid them flat on Tintin's stomach which quivered at the touch and then ran them up in one continuous motion up over Tintin's ribs, rasping over his chest, dipping into his collar bone, then finally curling firmly around the column of the young man's neck.

 

Tintin's breath was coming fast, the air gasping in and out of his mouth as he struggled to contain his fear. His mind was getting ahead of him as what had happened to all the other victims filled his mind.

 

"They were ashamed. They were too ashamed to tell anyone. They pretended not to remember," Tintin gasped.

 

The man's hands (a doctor's hands, his hands were so warm, the fingernails precisely trimmed, no callouses, but strong and dexterous) gave Tintin's throat one final squeeze before traveling all the way back down until they rested at the top of his pants.

 

"Most of them," the man replied innocuously. As if discussing the likelihood of an egg hatching or the mail coming early. "Some of them had very little resistance or took very long to go under and inhaled too much. They didn't wake up at all and their recollections are correct. I suspect some of them were too traumatized and quite honestly don't remember, though there was no physical impediment to their memory. But, you are correct. I believe most of them would just rather not say what happened to them."

 

The doctor deftly undid Tintin's belt and slid it from his belt loops.

 

"You're a medical professional," Tintin gasped desperately, hoping to distract the man. "A doctor, most likely."

 

"Very astute," the doctor replied, not pausing in popping open the button at the top of Tintin's pants and pulling down the zipper.

 

"Please, you took an oath to aid others and protect their health. You must have a family somewhere, friends, neighbors, people that would be terribly betrayed to find you doing something like this," Tintin begged.

 

"Young man, if you don't cease your prattling I'll have to gag you. And, please understand I'd much rather hear your distress without it," the doctor said in an exasperated tone before yanking Tintin's pants and underwear down to his ankles in one swift movement.

 

Tintin swallowed a desperate sound as chill air draped over him from stem to stern. He was sure he had never had a panic attack before. There were in fact many people who would have doubted Tintin had ever even experienced panic at all. But, the way that his chest was constricting, how hard it was to breathe, how quickly he was pulling air in and out lead him to believe he was on the fast track to hyperventilating.

 

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Tintin could hear the doctor clicking his tongue. The table creaked and moved slightly as Tintin felt the man crawl up onto the table over him. "You're much more attractive than you make noticeable, young man. It's quite a treat."

 

Tintin licked his lips and tried to even out his breathing as best he could. "Sir, I'm a reporter," he said and was gratified that his voice only barely quivered. "I won't be shamed into silence and if I disappear there will be people who will look for me."

 

The doctor's breath broke over Tintin's face in quick little puffs. Tintin grasped the straps fastening his wrists to the table in his fists.

 

"That's too bad," the doctor lamented. "I shall have to make sure to use you up before I get rid of you for good, then."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Captain Haddock cursed the young reporter for probably the umpteenth time that night. The night was dark and cold, penetrating his thick sweater and making the tip of his nose red and numb. So far as the Captain was able to finagle out of Tintin's barely involved editor, he was hunting the man attacking young people out on the docks.

 

Haddock sneered into his shoulder. It rankled him that Tintin hadn't let him in on this investigation, even if he already knew why. He had read the articles and seen the pictures in the paper. The people who were attacked were young, pretty, and looked unlikely to put up a fight. If Tintin had told Haddock he was going to use himself as bait not only would Haddock have (rightly) argued against it, but if push came to shove he would have come along and most likely scared off the attacker.

 

That didn't stop the experienced Captain from being upset that Tintin hadn't told him what he was doing. He didn't like going behind his young friend's back, but this was really very dangerous. Too dangerous for Tintin to have done alone without even taking Milou along.

 

It was late. Very late or very early, depending on how you looked at it. It was almost morning and Haddock had scoured the area around the docks three times and he still hadn't found Tintin. Logically, it was possible that Tintin had already returned to his little flat on Labrador street. Or, maybe he was following a lead somewhere else. But, Haddock's gut (which had been tight with anxiety all night) kept telling him that the boy was by the docks and Haddock was never one to ignore his instincts.

 

Tintin obviously wasn't out on the streets or in the few seedy establishments still open at such an ungodly hour. So, Haddock was circling some of the buildings out by the water. Most of them were locked up tight, but a few of them were wide open. Those that were he had looked into, but all that were there were the usual shipping crates piled high.

 

Haddock was about to give up when he passed by an old brick building that looked about ready to drop into the sea and noticed a faint glow coming from one of the lowest windows. When the old Captain crouched down, his knees aching in protest, he could barely see inside. The windows were so grimed up that everything inside was rendered vague. But, he thought by the faint light of a candle inside he could see something moving. And, after a few seconds, a flash of a familiar orange color.

 

Haddock felt his stomach drop. He hoped and prayed he was wrong. But, he couldn't even begin to make excuses for what he saw. He was already on his feet and circling the building before his brain could catch up to him. There was just one door that was accessible. It was facing the water with only a dilapidated set of wooden steps leading down to it. It was a latch door and when the Captain lifted the latch and pressed it open a chain on the inside stopped him from opening it fully.

 

From inside, Haddock could hear noises. Things like heavy breathing, the rustling of clothing, and what sounded like half swallowed sobs. His heart pounding in his chest, Haddock stepped back as far as the small steps would allow him and threw his shoulder against the door. His shoulder twinged painfully and he knew he would be nursing it later, but it was worth it when the little chain snapped and the door flew open with a bang.

 

Once inside, the scene unfolded like something out of the Captain's worst nightmares. Tintin was stretched across a rough hewn table with his hands and feet tied to each leg. His clothes had been cut and pulled off of him so that his pale freckled skin was exposed from his collar to his ankles. There was a black strip of cloth tied over his eyes and a rag stuffed into his mouth. When Haddock burst in a man in a very well to do three piece suit scrambled off of the young reporter. He was an older man, probably Haddock's age if not a little older. His hair was completely white and combed back in a precise manner. He wore small glasses on the end of a hooked nose. His jacket was thrown over a chair behind him and his pants were very visibly open.

 

Haddock felt his whole body go livid. He doubted he had ever felt such fury in his entire life as he felt toward the stranger in front of him. He would kill him! He was sure of it.

 

Any elegance of limb the man had before was lost as he scrambled toward another table toward the back of the room. The man rifled through a bag that had been left open and came out with a revolver. His hand trembling he turned the revolver toward Haddock. But, the Captain was no longer standing frozen across the room. He had come stampeding at the doctor and as he turned Haddock grabbed his wrist and thrust it up toward the ceiling. The man yelped and gun went off.

 

With nary a thought, the Captain pulled his free hand back and slammed his fist as hard as he could into the man's nose. He felt the satisfying destruction of the small glasses as they met with the meat of his knuckles and heard the wet smack of the man's head meeting and breaking open on the wall behind him.

 

Haddock stood breathing heavily over the man for a few seconds. He wanted to beat the man to death, if he was honest with himself. But, the doctor was obviously unconscious. And, even as angry as he was, he didn't think he could bring himself to beat somebody who was helpless.

 

Breathing heavily, Haddock picked up the revolver and shoved it into his belt. Then, he turned to Tintin and his stomach dropped again.

 

Tintin had his knees clenched as tightly together as he could and his hands were clenching and unclenching spasmodically above his head. His whole body was shivering and his breathing sounded loud and painful as it shuddered through his chest and nose.

 

Haddock went for the closest thing to him. He unbuckled the restraints on Tintin's ankles first, murmuring all the comforting words he could think of. As soon as his legs were free Tintin pulled his knees up toward him.

 

"It's okay, lad. You're safe. I've got you," Haddock whispered, doing the same to Tintin's wrists. As soon as one hand was free the young man pulled the gag out of his mouth and yanked the blindfold off his face. Tintin sat up and yanked his pants up to his hips before folding himself over his knees and shivering violently.

 

The captain tried to rub comforting circles into the young man's back as he trembled and bit back what might have been either sobbing or gagging or both. "Just a moment. I'm going to be right back, Tintin, okay? There's a lad," Haddock muttered before darting away from Tintin and toward the man passed out on the floor.

 

As the Captain pulled a length of rough rope off a hook on the wall and started to roughly tie the unconscious man up, he faintly understood that he was running on autopilot. He couldn't really be thinking about what had just happened, what he might have just barely prevented from happening. But, then that was okay with him. He knew he had to keep going for Tintin.

 

After the doctor was tied to a beam by the floor, Haddock returned to Tintin. He found the boy's trench coat in a corner of the room and tugged it over his shoulders. Then, he turned around and offered his back to the boy.

 

"Here now, Tintin. I'll give you a ride if you hop on," the Captain offered.

 

He half expected Tintin to scoff and admonish him. "I'm not a child, Captain!" he normally would have said. But, this night the young reporter shuffled toward the edge of the table, tucked his legs through the Captain's arms, and looped his arms around his neck. Grimacing, the Captain stood and took Tintin's faint weight with him.

 

The chill of the night almost seemed welcome in comparison to the damp close air of the warehouse basement.

 

"Captain," Tintin sniffed into Haddock's coat after they had walked a few blocks. It would be a while until they saw a police call box.

 

"Yes, lad?" the Captain replied.

 

"I'm ... I'm just really sorry," Tintin mumbled into Haddock's shoulder before hiccuping around what might have been a sob.

 

"Don't be sorry," Haddock said right away, knowing by instinct what Tintin was apologizing for. "I'm a daft old fool. I would have been given' every man who looked at you sideways such a look as to have never caught that man. Besides, it's your job to be uncommonly brave and my job to be uncommonly lucky."

 

Tintin stifled a watery laugh into the Captain's shoulder.

 

"Either way, thank you for saving me," he said quietly.

 

"You're quite welcome. Besides, we both know that you'd return the favor any time."

 

The two did have to walk quite a ways to find a police box. When they did, it started to rain. Little droplets plopped against the glass and the two stood inside waiting for the rain to let up. And, if they pressed just a little closer together than what was necessary, there were no passersby there to see.

 


End file.
